4.
A crisp snap runs rampantly across the top of the mountain and the reply is a roar that runs into the valley below which created avalanches that further buries what already should have been laid to rest. A needless redundancy. Not the avalanche but the fact that Barthomeloi is once again facing a snowman. Just that this time it is a bit larger than the suicidal one who likes warm hugs.
After leaving Olaf at the clearing, Barthomeloi made herself a breakfast any proper Lady who hated anything homely would be proud of and gathered her thoughts. There was only one person on the mountain who could create something like Olaf. The talking snowman had a soul or at least a personality even if it didn't have a heart or a brain. She tried to recall all the magical theory that she had learned but was still stumped.
Without coming up with an answer she quite absentmindedly mentally marked it as another failure to her now growing list and started up the mountain to visit the queen. Of course, she happened onto this instead.
A Phantasmal Species exactly the same as that idiotic, suicidal snowman Olaf. There was no need to exterminate it considering there was a bridge behind it. Instead Barthomeloi raised a bare hand to let that curtain raising snap cut through the crisp afternoon air.
"M'am,"
"Milady,"
In an instant her two familiars are beside her once more. Their calls to attention are futile in the face of the snowman's all-drowning roar.
"I want to see nothing but a lump of snow."
"As if it wasn't already a lump of-"
"Hush."
The screeching of icicles grinding together drown out the rest of the exchange. The snowman is a metaphoric avalanche to match the literal one that occurred mere seconds ago, but if it is a mountain then the two blurs that run in without a care for their lives must be the climbers.
In the mundane world there is no contest. Size matters; those who are larger are the ones who win most of the time. Why worry about techniques and tactics when you can merely squash all in your path? In the world of magi much common sense is ignored and some is even considered taboo; however, this rule of size stays the same. Just ask the Meisters. But at the same time the snowman looms over the two as if asking, daring Barthomeloi's familiars, "can you climb me?" And just like the mountaineers who risk their lives to scale peaks in the name of some foolish notion of romance, they climb. With its antlers, with its claws, with its teeth, with its fangs. The snowman is merely a mountain of snow so there is no way they can't find a tight patch of snow as a hold to propel them farther up.
"Get off me!"
Ignoring its own cumbersome body, the snowman shivers then nimbly extends its awkward limbs in an attempt to fling off the two mountaineers. The familiar's eyes are blinded with white while the familiars tightly grasped the body of the mountain as if icy winter air scrapes their backs. This phenomenon can only be called a snowstorm. One mistake, one lapse in strength would mean plummeting to a certain death. At least that is how it appeared to the two that were desperately clinging on, for Barthomeleoi would have seen nothing but a melodramatic travesty if she wasn't already making her way to the ice staircase.
At this point Barthomeloi is more than sure that the queen had made that ridiculous, no-nose snowman and if she had not then at least she made this one. A Phantasmal Species capable of human understanding and speech. It takes nothing to create a familiar with ten times the strength of the creator if it has but only one-tenth the versatility. That is why the pinnacle of familiar creation is one that can adapt to every situation. To humans this means implanting a human personality inside of the familiar. It is also another thing to create a Phantasmal Species. Any mad magus can make a Magical Beast, Chimera, if they glue and then tape enough animals together, but to create something as versatile as this…
"But even that means nothing. At least, not to me." Barthomeloi feels something creep up her face.
"Not allowed in there!"
With a burst of pure will and strength the snowman tears the stag off his neck and throws it at Barthomeloi's feet while the leopard is shaken off, unceremoniously landing on a patch that the snow has not yet covered.
Barthomeloi's eyes meet the mountain rushing towards her. From this moment they will not leave those beady hollows even as she bends down to slap the stag's rump.
"Eight seconds."
The stag's eyes snap open and after his legs cause a few flurries, kicking up a pile of fresh snow, it goes back onto its feet and as if it has earned a new lease on life bounds to intercept the snowman while radiating enough ferocity to demolish an entire mountain.
"I implore you-"
But there is no way a mere stag can flatten a mountain. No matter how sharp the stag's antlers are it is impossible to pierce through something whose only defining trait is its sheer size. But that isn't the only problem. Phantasmal Species are protected, be it from magical energy or some blessing. They are all hard to kill. After all, they are impossible existences that for some reason exist, remnants of a bygone era with different rules and physics so it should be obvious that something possible like this stag can do nothing but be enveloped by the oncoming snow slip. That is why Barthomeloi sent it; she had wanted it to do nothing. If nothing is the best that the stag can do then the stag best do the best damn nothing it could. At least it can buy Barthomeloi some time. In fact the more nothing it does the better it will be. Even the slap on the rump was a signal telling the stag that it was allowed unrestrained access to Barthomeloi's magical energy supply. All for the sake of nothing, Barthomeloi is such a magus.
"-Until thy world becomes ashes-"
The stag is tossed aside like some out of favour stuffed animal and the snowman continues its rampage making a beeline for Barthomeloi.
"Che-" Barthomeloi interrupts herself, "Only seven."
Raising its arm, reinforced with ice, the snowman readies itself to batter the lone girl still wearing a ball gown.
"-And those cast into the wind-"
But Barthomeloi does not retaliate. She merely continues to stand there reciting what seems to be a chant. Perhaps that in itself is her retaliation.
Incantation, the very fundamental of a spell. There are spells a magus uses that are released with only a single movement like the gnashing of teeth or the pointing of a finger like the three bullets of unprocessed magical energy Barthomeloi fired last night but they are only the basic of the basic. For more complex spells the user must recite a set amount of lines before actualizing the mystery. Unless High-Thaumaturgy is being performed the lines themselves don't necessarily mean anything. They are merely to further hypnotize the caster. Barthomeloi had asked for eight seconds and the snowman would need three more to reach her. That would mean Barthomeloi plans for a ten count spell, an A rank magecraft.
"-You stand here with no protection-!"
Her voice echoes across the peak announcing the conclusion. Judging from the organization and the content it is a spell that does not wound the opponent but rather makes him more susceptible to certain attacks. It seems Barthomeloi planned on nullifying the snowman's protection before using that final second to attack; however, because of the snowman's strength rather than the stag's failure the crucial second never manifests and as her cherry lips close that final line, like a comet, the arm comes down to bind Barthomeloi and the ground forevermore.
Erect, Barthomeloi refuses to move; instead she continues looking into the hollows that are her death, unflinching, proud even, the exact way she has marched through her life because...
"Yeeeeowwwww~!"
Half in surprise and half in pain, the snowman screams turning his attention away from Barthomeloi, for sinking its teeth into the snowman's left leg is the leopard.
Familiars are linked to their Masters so when the stag started taking unprecedented amounts of magical energy the leopard understood what his Mistress's plan was and followed suit. In turn, Barthomeloi felt this extra burden and continued her spell without reserve creating this minuscule opportunity for her to gather her skirts and scurry up the glittering ice staircase while dismissing her two familiars.
Roaring, the snowman attempts to follow but the moment it hears something in the distance it stops. Its mistress could take care of one mouse. What it hears is a company. A Phantasmal Species' protection is immense. No matter how great of a magus Barthomeloi is she can only weaken it temporarily. So more humans will come, what of it? Even now, the snowman can no longer be touched by human means, except for of course the leg the leopard bit into. That will take longer to heal but no matter, for leg or no leg the snowman is a Marshmallow, white, fake, and will always bounce back.